Singularity
by goatdemort
Summary: Voldemort's death was not the end; there was another war after the war that left Harry alone to walk the Earth. However, a strange rip in reality might change his and the wizarding world's fate. (HPTR, Tomarry) (T for now, slow build) (Kind of looking for a beta)
1. Chapter 1

\- I'm kind of looking for a beta, seeing as English is not my first language. Sorry for eventual mistakes.

Chapter I

The Abyss's eyes.

England, 2030.

Harry loved the scent of burnt wood. It reminded him of warm nights by the fire in the Gryffindors' common room. The smell of home, of belonging. The rich perfume invaded his nostrils and gave him the nostalgic shiver of someone coming home after a very long time. Happiness coiled for a few seconds in the pit of his stomach, as if he was a eleven years old boy again, so eager and so naive and _so full of life_.

But as soon as the man opened his eyes, the magic was gone. Instead of the warm nostalgia, there was now only grieving and resignation in his heart, for before him stood the ashes and fragmented ruins of Hogwarts. The lovely thoughts from before were now gone, as if an icy wind scattered his old self, his memories, his life. He gripped his middle from the sensation, suddenly feeling cold, and helpless.

« What a pathetic ending. » he thought aloud. No one was here to hear him, and the only response he got was the rustling of the autumn leaves of the Forbidden Forest. Everyone was gone, friends, foes. Nothing mattered. The whole world was empty, just like the battlefield before him. There was no one, there would never be anyone else. He was the Last Man on Earth, for he was the Master of Death that escaped the mortal fates.

—

To make the loneliness a little more bearable, he established his lodging in the old dorm of Gryffindor's tower. It was in a pitiful state really, but with a flick of the wand, he placed a ward against the elements, but also a relatively cozy tent to escape the Scottish weather. « Welcome home. » he muttered with a small, bitter smile. He could probably go to a nice tropical island in the middle of the Pacific to live the rest of his life, but it wouldn't really feel the same. Harry always wanted to die surrounded by his friends and family, but it seemed like their memories would suffice.

« Dying… What a pretty thought. ». If he found Voldemort's obsession with eternal life a tad ridiculous, it now seemed completely bonkers to want to stay alive forever. It was a curse, an unbearable curse, a cruel joke from Fate. He must have been an awful person in another life to live this nightmare now. When he thought about it, he found himself smiling a fond smile. Voldemort would have gone crazy too, living forever with no one to lick his boots.

When he found the shard of a mirror one morning during his daily stroll in the ruins, he took a long look at himself. Not a day older than 22. Not a wrinkle. Nothing. His face was full of the beauty of the youth. His hair were straight, but dishevelled as always. Not a speck of white could be seen. He no longer needed his glasses with the advancement of muggle medicine: he wore contact lenses — which he would have to abandon soon since everything was out of production anyway. His Avada Kedavra eyes which once shone with the sparkle of mischief were now a bit dulled, a somber green, like moss. His mother's eyes, maybe? Harry couldn't quite recall what she looked like. Her picture have burned a long time ago after all. She was a redhead, like Ginny had been (and it was a bit freaky, with a little retrospective, to have married a girl resembling his dead mother so much), and he always thought that if he grew a beard it would be partly reddish. But no such thing as a beard grew on himself. He just looked like he was out of school, petite with a toned body from years of training, completely unchanged by the years.

He was 50.

—

During daylight, he hunted for food. It was nothing too complicated, but it was strenuous enough that he didn't stay late at night. It was good, he thought, the nightmares didn't plague him when he was this tired. It lasted a certain time, months or something, before he couldn't bear the thought of killing another life. It reminded him too much that he was alone to walk the Earth. He expanded the small garden he had at the bottom of the Lion's tower. Hogwarts' soil was good, great even. No wonder Pomona Sprout cultivated with success such rare breeds of plants here. The weather however, was awful. An enchanted greenhouse like the old one would have been perfect to keep his fruits and vegetables safe, but the wizard had more urgent matters to address, such as the reconstruction of the Tower into something more familiar and hospitable.

He still grew a large array of comestibles, which were perfectly fine to eat, and some other things like Ghostly Manes (to brew calming droughts) or Heaven's fruits (to stay energised through the days). The patch of garden soon became a small field divided into different sections, blooming beautifully according to the seasons. It was maybe the activity that calmed him and eased him the most. Neville Longbottom would have been proud.

When he wasn't gardening, he was reading: having found the old library in the dungeons, mostly untouched, he occupied his mind with books, learning with a thirst he didn't know he had every information, every bit of magic he could find. For a brief period, he researched spell and hexes to put an end to his misery and finally kill himself. « So much for the Boy-Who-Lived ! ». But it proven to be quite useless, and frankly, it stung a bit to slice different parts of him, only for them to regrew anew the next morning.

Instead of indulging himself longer in his morbid dreams, he tried to become the best wizard ever born under the sun (it was an easy feat since he was now the only wizard). Having read a grand total of eight times the book in the Forbidden Section, he had after all a lot of time on his hands, he sometimes apparated to different parts of the World, looking for old books and new things to search and quench his newly found interest in becoming a living library. But he didn't stay for very long outside his Scottish haven, for it was unbearable even then to see the world completely empty.

He was 78.

—

He reconstructed almost everything in the Castle, from Hagrid's shack to the Headmaster's office, although it seemed quite empty without the moving portraits and of course the students. He was sure there were a few errors in his memories, but it comforted him to be in familiar waters. He didn't felt as much crazy when he was on Hogwarts's grounds. The magic of the place was lost since it was the powers of the four Founders combined that gave this place this eerie feel. Harry had constructed a shell, an empty shell from his long lost dreams. It was pretty sad, but in a way, not so much. For a moment, he put a spell in the halls in order to hear background noise, people talking. But after two hours, Harry went downright crazy, hurling and crying like a banshee. Such a bad idea. He never attempted that again.

He had a cooking period where he stress-baked, after a trip to New-York to retrieve some book about healing spells. The world was empty of life, but it wasn't devoid of the remnants of people. There were skeletons everywhere, wands… He would rather not think about it again.

Animals were soon attracted to the everlasting smell of food in the castle, and roamed the halls freely. It wasn't a rare sight for Harry to see deers in the middle of the Great Hall. He woke up everyday to the joyful chirps of birds, but he was careful not to let them in too much so as to not make the whole place an owlery. He had cats, once he had a dog but those were rare now since they couldn't really live without Man. His favorites familiars were snakes, they could, after all, understand each other with parseltongue. He had a few he favourited, letting them sleep with him sometimes. Even if they could talk, they rarely did. Snakes were creatures of few words. It suited Harry though, he longed human company and conversations. Snakes were nice enough, but asides from talking about their latest meal, they weren't all that interesting and lacked complex emotions.

Often his mind drifted to Voldemort. Harry thought he saw him in every scaly creature. Tom Riddle, whose mind Harry came to understand with all these years of solitude. It took Harry a long time to accept that Riddle and him were similar, were very similar. He would even go as far as to say that they were two sides of the same coin. He was the only person Harry couldn't forget, even if he wanted to. Hermione, Ron, even his once wife Ginny… He forgot their faces sometimes, how they behaved. He only remembered bits here and there, parodies of their personality. A bookworm, a klutz, a kind redhead. They became keywords and vague concepts. His children, James, Albus and Lily, had not yet suffered the same fate. But he couldn't help but feel that they were going to disappear from his mind soon, like the winds scattered the dust. He lost them so long ago after all.

Periodically, he kept journals and diaries with their description, names, tastes, activities, so he couldn't forget them. Then every few years, in a fit of rage because of all this injustice, he would burn it all. Then he would be plagued with remorse for weeks, and restart anew, each time forgetting more and more about them. But he couldn't forget Riddle. Oh no, he couldn't.

He never wrote anything about Riddle because he felt guilty. Guilty for forgetting those who loved him, but never forgetting the man who tried to take it all from him (even though he didn't really succeed). It was like a second, minor curse, besides this eternality thing.

Since he was the only one whose shape and mind he could distinct so well in his tortured memories, he was some kind of sick lifeline, a link to the Lost World in his forsaken Eden. It felt good, but at the same time, it was agonising. Soon, he forgot how to be guilty for this. Then came a time where he felt angry. Riddle was always there, but he was not. At least his loved ones had the decency to not haunt him like he did. When Harry cut woods, he did it without magic so that he could imagine that the log was Tom's head.

« Fucking—» _tak_ « Riddle—» _tak_ « Fuck! » _tak_ « You ! » Then he took a deep breath after his outburst. « You are always here you stupid fuck ! » _tak_ « Begone you and your shitty ideas ! » _tak_ « Who fucking names his followers Death Eaters, huh ?! » _tak_.

After cutting wood, his voice was always hoarse from screaming.

He was almost 100 by now.

—

The thought of Tom never left him. It was maddening. It was some kind of small buzz the first years, but the older Harry got, the more his presence was loud, so very loud. Nothing could deaf the figure in his mind. Harry was becoming crazy with Tom Riddle. « Fucking Horcrux shit magic… » He would mutter sometimes. The deers would look at him strangely before resuming their deer activities. Harry was sure it was because of the Horcrux in him, so long ago. Like an open wound, the piece inside Harry left, but also never left.

Then, after years of forgetting things, he started to openly accept that he remembered Tom Riddle.

He let him occupy his mind. It was a welcome change of pace. Since he was starting to lose it, might as well do it on his own accord.

He started celebrating his birthday. He would bake a cake (to Harry's taste of course), light a candle, and eat it by the lake, letting his mind wander to the person Tom Riddle might have been before being an horrid serpentine man. He would finish the cake with a bottle of red wine, and brandish his glass in a mocking gesture of a toast, admiring the velvety red of the liquid in the sunlight, thinking that this was an hommage to Tom's eyes and their colour. He would drink half of it, then throw the rest in the murky waters. « May you find this drink in the Afterlife, Tom. ».

It was a beautiful ceremony in Harry's opinion, one he now did every year.

He started remembering little things about his nemesis, and when he adopted a new snake, he called it Tom, because he was more beautiful and more intelligent than the rest of his specie. He actually conversed with Tom. It wasn't like he was talking to Riddle, mind you, but he felt his mourning of the Old world starting to fade when they conversed.

—

Tom always slept with Harry. He wasn't really big so he wasn't a nuisance, and the creature didn't mind Harry trashing in his sleep as long as he stayed warm. It was a win-win. It made Harry laugh when he thought about it, really. He thought it was fitting and that the snake really lived up to its name.

But one day, Tom slithered out of the bed before Harry woke up.

« Tom ? » He called out to his friend. Harry slid out of bed, wondering where this damn snake was. They never really left each other except when Tom was hungry, which wasn't often. He stepped out of his chambers, into the Gryffindor's common room.

Then he heard it.

A cristalline laughter.

Harry's entire body grew cold this instant.

He must have misheard it. He was the Last Man on Earth, the cursed Master of Death.

He ran out of the room into the halls, calling all the moving stairs to obey his orders.

« Is someone here ?! » he screamed at the top of his lungs, descending the steps in a frenzy. He ran, corridor after corridor, to hear that laughter again. He was sure it was real. He stopped. Or was it ? Has he truly gone mad ?

Something in the corner of his vision moved. A shadow, a glimpse of something.

Harry was truly afraid now. Whatever it is couldn't have passed the wards without him knowing. The laughter. He heard it behind him. Harry shivered as if he was possessed. He spun on his heels. Nothing. He ran. He ran as fast as possible towards the hellish sound.

Anyone in his right mind would run the other way, the sound was horrible. A childlike laugh, directed right at you, that chilled you to the bone. Harry was strong, but this seemed otherworldly. The sound echoed in the whole castle. Feverishly, Harry gripped the handles of the Great Hall's wooden doors and scurried inside, wand drawn, his whole ready.

« Show yourself ! »

The laughter was now deafening. The enormous room which was usually occupied by wildlife was terribly empty, Harry hurried to the Professors's table, stood on it, his body tight with anticipation.

« Show your fucking self ! » He repeated more harshly.

And then, it stopped.

It was as if Time stood still for a moment. Nothing moved. Harry stopped breathing, his eyes a striking emerald against the redness of his cheeks. Somewhere in his mind he noted that he was trembling like a maniac.

« What the… »

And then the screech, the screech happened. Harry fell on his knees on the table, his hands covering his ears in a reflex. He screamed but he couldn't hear his own scream over the terrifying sound. If Harry thought he's known pure, undiluted terror, he was wrong, nothing could compare to this.

He heard a rip, a tear, an enormous scratch, which was an incredible feat considering the noise he was hearing. He felt tears in his eyes. He would die like this? Killed by the maddening sound?

The scratch surpassed the scream. Harry half-opened his eyes. The ripping sound was very real: There was a rip in reality ! The air seemed to split open, and in the opening there was nothing but the pitch-black void. Harry tried to analyse the situation but nothing he read could compare to what was happening. The rip was gigantic, as big as the Great Hall's doors. At first it was a big but thin gash, but it was expanding rapidly.

He suddenly thought of something he'd read long ago in a muggle book.

 _« And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee… »_

And it was true, something was calling to him; the void wasn't void, the void fucking called to him. It was a terrifying thought, but he couldn't look anywhere else than the wound, his eyes drunken with the sight. He crawled on the floor towards the abomination, crazed, sweating profusely. He was in some kind of haze, thoughts gone from his mind. After what seemed like an eternity, he was there, he was at the doors of the void. The abyss stared back ! The abyss !

The horrid scream had not died down but seemed to double with Harry's closeness to the singularity, and when he put his hand in it — he fucking dared put his hand _in_ the thing ! he smiled the awful smile of someone who's lost it completely.

He put his whole body in the rip.

—

Harry should have been 152.

—


	2. Chapter 2

\- Thanks for the nice reviews and the follows, it's nice to see that my garbage story is actually read ! Please enjoy chapter 2 !

Chapter II

The drift.

It was like floating in a never-ending, mellow dream. Every sound were muffled. Hell, he didn't even know if he could produce a sound in this state. There was nothing he could grasp to anchor himself in the deep darkness. Was he still? Was he falling? He couldn't tell. There was no way to tell. He tried to take a hold of his wand, but it proven to be too hard. It was like moving in a sea of cotton.

His clothes still clung to his body from the sweat, but he didn't felt cold. A warm sea of cotton. What new joke could Fate have invented? Was this his new personal hell? Wasn't it enough to have spent 130 years alone ?

He drifted once more into unconsciousness.

—

He woke up on a beach.

Crashing waves, reeling sounds. Seagulls. He tasted the salt in the air and on his chapped lips. How long was he lying here again?

He tried to sit up and to open his eyes, but even though the sky was white with clouds, it was too blinding, too bright. His head pounded and throbbed. He had sand in his shoes. All in all, the whole experience was uncomfortable.

« You're awake ? »

Harry's eyes shot open. It was fucking Voldemort, in his trademark robes, just like he remembered him from their last duel, a long time ago: scaly, bald and noseless. Except he was harbouring a shit-eating grin. How uncharacteristic. Or maybe not. Riddle could be unpredictable.

« You're awake ? »

« Uh… Yes, wha-»

« You're awake ? »

Harry was starting to get creeped out by his ex-nemesis. Don't get him wrong, Voldemort has always been kind of creepy, but this was a whole new level of creepiness. The Dark Lord just stared down at him, smiling like mad, asking this fucking question once again: « Are you awake ? »

Harry sprung to his feet and grabbed the lapels of the man's robes. « I'm fucking awake you piece of shit, what are you playing at ? » He just smiled, but his smile did not reach his eyes, which were cold, hard, and… lifeless ?

« Are you awake ? »

« I must be dreaming… You're not Riddle. You're nothing like Riddle. This is a farce. I'm dreaming. »

When Harry looked into Not-Voldemort's eyes, they swallowed him, comically big, like the void. They did not repeat the damned mantra, but they yelled, a mix of Riddle's nasal voice and the otherworldly screech.

 _« YOU'RE DRIFTING ! »_

Harry fell into the abyss again.

—

Tom was special, he always knew it. He always has had something other kids didn't. First, it was his magic that dissociated him from others. That was… unexpected, but brilliant. There was so few sorcerers in the world and he was one of them. He never considered himself lucky, but he knew this was the chance of a lifetime when Dumbledore set his wardrobe on fire and told him all about the school of wizardry. Then, when he entered Hogwarts, it was the fact that he was so powerful that set him appart.

But.

 _But_.

There was something he discovered that rendered him completely ordinary, even plebeian: one of his parents was for sure a muggle.

He searched everything. Everything to prove that he was pure, that his blood was undiluted and untainted. But the name « Riddle » was not part of the great names of pureblooded families. Not a single one; even the most shameful family trees didn't have the Riddle occurrence. It was like an ink stain on a white sheet of paper; a terrible, indelible blotch of red ink, impure and dirty. When Tom discovered that, he spent at least an hour in the Slytherin showers scrubbing himself, until his fingernails left vermilion scars on his opalescent skin. He hated it. It made him feel filthy and improper, and when he looked at his pureblood camarades, which the Slytherin house was full of, he felt something akin to jealousy, longing, and worst of all, shame.

He didn't tell it to anyone, even if they were rather suspicious. There was no way he could. He would lose the respect of his peers, it was certain. He saw how they treated halfblooded wizards and it was atrocious, he would never live this down, not after the orphanage, this bloody place.

Tom wanted nothing but greatness, but his dammed blood was nothing but plain. It enraged him to no end. As soon as he had escaped the fate of the poor, nameless orphan, he was back at it again. Thus, he resolved to simply become the greatest, so he wouldn't have to prove anything to anyone. Tom was lucky though, he didn't have to try very hard to be the best; he was simply blessed with all of nature's gift.

 _Except the blood_ , he thought bitterly.

—

Summer 1943.

Tom was feeling anxious. It was a weird feeling, really, for someone so usually assured (or at least in appearance). It gnawed at him to the core, and needless to say, it was definitely unpleasant.

Today, he was meeting his family to finally learn the truth about himself.

It had been really hard to retrace his family tree; he wasn't even sure if the people he narrowed down on the list were truly his folks. It was like trying to find a needle in a haystack.

He had finally arrived to Little Hangleton. It's been a long and tedious travel, but he couldn't take the risk of apparating to the small village with the Ministry's trace on him. It wouldn't do if people started asking questions on his whereabouts. And Dumbledore of all people, that old, meddling fool…

He started questioning the locals about Mr. Riddle. They were rather cooperative on his location (it was after all quite impossible to miss his manor, on their words), but when asked about his character, they didn't seem very inclined to answer. What was encouraging and comforted Tom in the idea that this really was the man he looked for was the fact that every townspeople noted the similarity between him and his supposed father. His apprehensive feeling from earlier melted a bit when hearing that (or maybe it was even stronger ? God, he was so excited he couldn't tell). He was so close to meeting his genitor !

Riddle Manor was situated at the top of a steep, grassy hill. A small tree-lined road led to it, and one could easily feel in the air the sweet smell of summer. Tom was dressed in his best white shirt, simple beige slacks, an emerald jacket under his arm. He paid for these with hard-earned money (after helping young Slytherins in their studies) a few days ago during his methodic preparations of this trip, hoping his clothes would make a nice impression on whoever he'd face. His face was as rested and fresh with the supple beauty of youth as ever, despite his uneasiness and apprehension of this long-awaited meeting. His stomach was full of unpleasant knots, as if he was a small child again.

The young wizard decided to take it slow: it wouldn't do to dirty his clothes with sweat or appearing before his parent completely disheveled and drunk in anticipation.

There was a fork on the path to the Manor, that strayed towards a small, albeit a bit dried out, lake. It seemed best in Tom's mind to rest a little before his fateful encounter.

Putting his jacket underneath his trousers, he sat on a patch of emerald grass, gently lulled by the chirruping of the valley's birds. The whole scenery was peaceful, and Tom wished he could be one with it. He closed his eyes to feel it better. He never really indulged in sunbathing, but he supposed that he might take a liking in this kind of activity. _Yes_ , he thought, maybe if these people really were his parents, he could come back to Little Hangleton and spoil himself a little.

The concept felt foreign for Tom, the poor orphan from Wool's muggle Orphanage.

He knew it was silly, but he couldn't help but hope that this Manor was indeed his father's. To feel luxury, at last, with his long-lost parent. The idea of never having to go back to that dreadful orphanage was paradise; to never hear the German air raids in the London's sky was a bliss: finding somewhere safe where he belonged, even if for a moment, truly brought him solace. He shouldn't get his hopes up, his personal history taught him that, but the childlike wonder of the possibility of finally be at peace with the world was too great to ignore.

He sighed, his breath lost in the warm air of July…

Suddenly, there was some kind of tension in the air, like electricity. He recognised it: it was wizardry. For a moment, Tom thought he was so nervous that he had manifested accidental magic, when he actually remembered that he wasn't a ten year old child anymore, and that he was one the strongest sorcerer Britain had to offer. He was above accidental magic, end of discussion. _Then where did that come from…?_

The lakeside has gotten too calm. He opened his eyes and got up, readying his wand. It wouldn't do to be taken by surprise by a rogue wizard.

He walked cautiously around the shore, wand drawn, ready to strike. The birds were silent and one could only hear the slight rusting of the leaves in the trees.

The clearing from whence he had come was starting distance itself the more he walked along the coast. Lush trees and briars soon took the place of the thin grass from earlier. As he went deeper into the grove, he noticed that the lake seemed to transform into a swamp, from which sprouted reeds here and there. The tension felt stronger, the strain on his skin, on the verge of being unpleasant. The thing from which this magic emanated was undoubtedly strong and Tom started to hope he wasn't throwing himself in harm's way.

The reeds started to be a lot more numerous than before. _Here it is_ , he thought anxiously.

He rolled up the hems of his trousers on his slim legs, careful not to to taint them with vase, and started to cautiously enter the bush.

There, amidst the murky waters and algae, lied the corpse of a man.

« What the… »

And it was as if a spell has been lifted, everything went back to normal. Tom exhaled the breath he didn't knew he held for so long. It was all so strange, it was as if he'd been drawn to this corpse —

« Nh… » The corpse moved. It wasn't a corpse at all.

Tom studied the form carefully. The man seemed a bit older than he were, but probably not by much. Well, it was hard to tell because he wasn't really what you would call tall, even though he was lying down. He looked rather unkempt: his hair were mated with mud, and his skin bore cuts and crass here and there. _Great, I've stumbled upon the local hobo_ , thought Tom bitterly.

« Hey, can you get up ? » He demanded rather brusquely. He hoped that interlude with the tramp wouldn't take too long or else he'd have to postpone his visit to Riddle Manor, which was hardly conceivable in his mind.

The man's eyes shot open at his voice, it happened so fast that Tom took a step back and pointed his wand at him in a self-defensive movement. The two orbs zeroed on him and a disbelieving (and rather graceless) expression appeared on his face.

« Are you gonna scream again ? Please don't scream. » he pleaded, eyes wide and fearful. Nice, the man was a hobo AND he was drunk, Tom was sure of it. Now he felt rather unconvinced that he was the origin of the magical strain he felt earlier.

« Scream ? I didn't scream. Who are you and what are you doing here ? »

The man arched an eyebrow defiantly. « Who are… Riddle if this is a joke, it's not funny. Even as a dream you're just a twat. »

Tom's wand was right in his face at this instant.

« How do you know my name ? I won't be repeating myself; who are you ? »

But the man was faster. As soon as Tom finished his phrase that he was in the mud instead of the stranger, his weapon in the other's hand, and an unknown wand at his throat. Even though the stranger was smaller than he were, he hid quite a strength that Tom didn't think he could muster in his state. The tramp's stance was firm, but his expression was now that of someone quite bored with the whole situation.

« Riddle, I had a rough day today. Just, let me go back to sleep and… Wait no, that not right. » Keeping his vicelike grip on Tom's wand and forearm, the stranger took in his surroundings. « Everything seems… It's Little Hangleton isn't it ? Wait, why… Why does everything looks so _real_ … Dreams aren't supposed to be this real… »

Tom was sincerely starting to lose his temper underneath him. First, the lunatic, then his now ruined clothing, the lost wand, and he was being manhandled like a damn child.

« Release me at once ! » he hissed between clenched teeth.

The stranger's eyes focused back on him again. They were the most viridian orbs he's ever seen, but they seemed completely lost, almost panicked.

« What happened… » He released his hold on the sorcerer, both wands still in his hands. He looked at the village in the distance. « What did I do… »

« Would you STOP that and tell me who you are ?! » Tom finally lashed out. The other glanced at him.

« Must you always be this unpleasant ? Shut up, I can't think. »

And with a flick of the wand, Tom's world went black.


	3. Chapter 3

Once again, thank you for everyone's lovely feedback, it makes me really happy to see my *work* appreciated! Please enjoy this chapter.

Chapter III

The live ghost.

When Tom awoke, he was in a quite confortable bed. His mind was foggy from sleep, but he couldn't help but registering the softness of his beddings. The sheets were thin enough that he didn't felt unpleasant with the summer's heat and they smelled clean. Clean sheets were his utmost priority in what constituted a fine bed; he had after all suffered far too much from the mouldy odours of badly washed linens in the orphanage.

Wait.

He was thinking about beds, but why was he even in a bed to begin with ?

His eyes flew open and he got up so fast that he first saw stars. It was nighttime. _Nighttime_. Wasn't he supposed to have reunited with his family ? That's right, he was in Little Hangleton. But instead of having walked all the way to Riddle Manor, he rested a bit and…

The hobo.

 _The fucking hobo._

« I wouldn't get up so fast if I were you Riddle. » A gentle voice scolded him. The tramp's voice. Now he was seeing red.

« What the hell ? Do you often go around, play dead and then stupefy the people that try to help you ? And give me back my wand ! »

« Are you always this noisy upon waking up ? I would've taken you for the quiet type, but you're actually loud-mouthed, aren't you ? What a surprise after all this time. »

The stranger's face was clearer now; he seemed to have washed up during Tom's sleep. When the wizard observed him earlier, he looked not a day over twenty, but now that he had regained a somewhat decent appearance, he seemed strangely old. He thought that maybe if he reached out to him, he would crumble to dust at any time. But what was even stranger, is that in the case he would indeed turn to ashes, Tom felt that his beryl eyes would sit atop the dusty mound, radiant and grave and impossibly green. Like some kind of curious and beautiful relic from another time.

He was sitting cross-legged on another bed across the room. His clothes were the same from when Tom found him between the reeds. They almost mirrored his own in style, but unlike when he met him, they were clean now, probably thanks to a cleaning spell. That's how he was reminded that the hobo wasn't a simpleton but rather a decent sorcerer, that succeeded in disarming him, a feat no one had the courage or capacity to accomplish since he was a first-year at Hogwarts.

He was wary; if the stranger was capable of doing that, and at the same time knowing his identity, this meant trouble, he was sure of it. The man interrupted his thoughts and spoke up.

« You're right, it was rude of me to do that. It's been an awful long time since I've seen another human being. » He paused, and gazed at the stormy-eyed teen. « I booked this room with your money too… I'm sorry I didn't have any on me. » He at least had the decency to look sheepish at that. Tom's hands were starting to twitch, they longed to wrap around the boy's neck and—

« But » the vagrant continued, « But the manageress was kind enough to give us today's newspaper. We're in 1943 aren't we ? the 12th of July ? » He asked with a strange glint in his eyes.

« That's right. »

He started to chuckle, his laugh changing to a howl as seconds passed. He truly was mad. A dangerous and mad wizard weren't a good sign. He started to wipe at his eyes, still giggling as if Tom had just told him the best joke in the world. But Tom didn't really do jokes, and he most certainly didn't felt like laughing.

« 1943… Merlin's beard ! Oh Riddle, this is unbelievable. »

« I asked you before, but who are you and how do you know my name ? »

« I'm Harry. » the wizard said, laughing still. « It's nice to meet you Tom. »

—

Harry had salvaged old newspapers and was reading all he could about the last few months's activities. They were eating breakfast at the inn, or rather, he was eating breakfast and Tom looked at him as if he were some kind of rare but dangerous animal over his own earl grey. The rest of last night had been uneventful. Harry had refused to answer Tom's questions, which annoyed him to no end. But Tom was a curious man who didn't take no for an answer. He even tried to charm the answers out of him, but the wizard seemed too deranged to even care about his serenading.

But, when Tom emitted the idea of going their separate ways for now (so that he could actually meet with his supposed family), the other sorcerer looked at him strangely, and whereas he was in an elated mood before, he suddenly shut down and gave him the cold shoulder, saying it was best if Tom stayed at the inn for the time being.

No need to say that this was preposterous idea for the Slytherin boy. But it wasn't like he could do anything about it anyway: his wand was still with this Harry vagrant.

« Are you sulking ? »

Tom was pullet out of his musings by the sing-song voice. Harry smiled at him. « You seem very quiet compared to yesterday. »

« I am usually quiet. »

« Yes, it appears so. » Harry was buttering another toast, uncaring of the teen's sour tone. « You know, I've been thinking. »

Tom snorted. « Careful. »

Harry looked surprise. « That was cheeky. As I was saying: I was thinking last night. And I thought it would be a good idea to tell you about myself. You are, after all, very intelligent, and for my sake and yours, it would be good to let you know about my current situation. » He paused, searching the right words. « I'm… No, that's not right… Alright, I wont beat around the bush any longer. I'm from another time ? Dimension ? Something like that. »

« Right… »

« I'm serious Riddle ! I come from the future ! »

Tom sprung from his seat, ready to strike. « Don't make a fool out of me, Harry. »

« I'm not. You have to listen me. » He casted a Notice-me-not charm to keep the other customers from listening, and motioned for Riddle to sit. « Everything was normal, and suddenly, there was this tension, this electricity in the air. And then, I heard an awful laughter. It led me to this big crack and when I put my hand in it, it pulled me in. Next thing thing I knew, you woke me up and there we are. »

« That was the most uninteresting story about time-travelling ever, Harry, great job. »

He rubbed his eyes frustratingly. « Yeah well, that's what happened alright ? But I can prove that I'm from the future, because I know you, Riddle. »

« Pray do tell. »

« Your full name is Thomas Marvel Riddle. You are in Slytherin. »

« That was easy, anybody could have guessed that, and even if you were poor at assumptions, you could have just asked someone from Hogwarts who I am. »

Harry had a knowing smile. « Yes, indeed. But what I know, however, is that you're a halfblood in a den of snakes. Now that's not common knowledge. »

Tom tensed. « Yes… That I am. But that secret is known from a few people too. » There was a moment of silence. « Tell me what you know about my future then. »

Harry sighed. « I'm not sure I can tell you this easily. What if the future changed and I was never born? What if… there was a spatial rupture ? And a black hole ? And the universe completely collapsing on itself all because you couldn't wait to know how the hell you'll grow old ? »

« You cannot tell people you come from the future with minimal proof and except them to believe your little fairytale. »

« For the love of… Riddle just trust me alright ? » He was beginning to develop a headache. This conversation was leading to nowhere, when suddenly his eyes lit up, thinking about something. « What if we made a deal ? You'll stick with me, because I know no one in this timeline. »

« I don't know Harry; where do you see the « deal » part with this? Because right now you're the only one getting something out of it. »

« And that's where you're wrong ! You'll stick with me and help me adjusting to this time. In exchange, I will tell you some things about your future. »

« I thought you feared the universe collapsing on itself if you revealed things about me. »

« Yeah I know what I said. » He answered, munching angrily on his toast. « But what good is there in me being here if I can't use my knowledge to change things for the best you know ? I don't know. I'm at a complete loss for this kind of situation. » He rubbed his hands against his eyes in frustration.

Tom drank his tea. « I honestly think that your arrival here would have already caused the world's end if there actually was a danger. You're already a singularity, if your story proves to be true. »

« It _is_ true. But I guess you're right… » He lightly drummed his fingers against the table. « Yeah, everything would have already ended, unless I truly am here to serve some sort of purpose. »

« I hope you won't get all religious on me, I frankly hate that. »

« Is there something you don't hate ? » He muttered in return.

Tom's eyebrow lifted elegantly on his face. « Right, I forgot that you knew everything about me. »

« And what if I told you something not from the future, but from your own past ? Surely this wouldn't mess up the space-time continuum too much. »

The man seemed to ponder the question for a moment. « I suppose, but you could have done extensive… research on me, I think it would be more interesting for you to tell me something from my past that I don't know of. »

« Like what ? »

Tom faked being deeply in thoughts. « I don't know, maybe you could tell me about my family ? » He feigned innocence.

« How would you know it's the truth then ? »

« Trust me, I would know. There are certain details to a story one cannot invent. »

Harry seemed distressed. Was it safe to tell Riddle about his inheritance ? It's true that he was on his way to the Manor when he met him, but would him knowing about his family like this would set him on the path to being a murderer too ? It was a really heavy responsibility. Even if Harry was 150 years old or something, he didn't feel like he could handle this if he broke Tom's heart to the point where he'd become a Dark Lord. He might be a psychopath in the future, but right now? The man before him didn't really look like a criminal.

 _Dumbledore told me that he manipulated people as if it was his second nature, but…_ Harry's head and chest started to ache. He was 17 for Merlin's sake. It seemed wrong to just assume he was a potential serial killer. Did Harry spent so much time alone that he just forgot how to be careful around potential threats? Moreover, did his years of solitude with only the thoughts of his nemesis clear as water soften his self-preservation around him?

« Why are you looking at me like that? »

« I'm not looking at you ! »

« Right, you aren't. Did you make a decision? Otherwise, I'll just assume you're demented and leave, _with my wand,_ which you _took_. » he accentuated the last words with a snarl.

Harry was conflicted, but most of all cornered. It wasn't a coincidence that he was pulled into Riddle's time, to his location, and that the wizard himself found him lying in the grove. It wouldn't do to separate, there had to be reason for this contingency, and he would not solve it alone.

« Alright, I'll prove what I said. I'm going to tell you about your family. » He said in a whisper.

Tom leaned closer across the table.

« Your mother… She died on the steps of that orphanage after she birthed you and named you. »

Tom held his breath. This was a highly confidential detail about himself. « She died, not because of sickness, but because of a heartbreak. You see, she was a wizard, and your father, when he discovered it, repudiated both you and her. »

« She was the wizard… » Tom couldn't believe his own ears.

« She let herself die when he left the both of you… I'm sorry. »

« My father… »

Harry smiled softly and buttered another toast. « Would you like to know about the father who left you and your mother without a single regret? »

Tom's face seemed indecipherable, but Harry knew there was a turmoil of emotions boiling in those stormy grey eyes. Even though the Horcrux hadn't been a part of him for many years, he felt like he could actually feel what Tom felt. Disappointment, regret, loneliness. It was a beautiful mirror of the man's own emotions from when he haunted Hogwarts endlessly, pointlessly.

« She left you at Wool's Orphanage so that neither her family nor your father could find you. They are… twisted people, to say the least. »

« What could you tell me about my mother's family? »

« But I thought you knew ? » Said Harry knowingly. « I think you should have read it yourself by now, that you're related to Salazar Slytherin. »

The wizard gasped softly.

« But you know how it is with Purebloods… Your family bred themselves into madness. To keep the blood, well, pure. Nothing good will come from the Gaunts.

« Gaunt… » He parroted. He held his hands in front of his face and rubbed them slowly against his eyes. « Oh God don't tell me you're actually telling the truth… »

How many times had Harry wished it wasn't the truth.

—

They left shortly after that. Tom hadn't said a word since morning, and Harry started to worry that he might have broken the man. They just started walking, and Harry hadn't even dared ask him about their destination. It somehow felt wrong to disturb his silence with such a trivial question. He doubted Riddle would even answer anyway.

They walked under the summer sun, and if the other wizard suffered from the burning orb of from dehydration, he said nothing. Harry felt sweaty and disgusting, but if he took a little break to cast a spell to remedy that, he knew that Tom would just keep on going straight ahead, and having to keep up with his long strides was tiring enough in itself to run after him.

He stole little looks now and then to see if his face showed something, but no such luck. His mask was still on, looking as placid as ever.

Harry sighed.

…

It felt as if he was back in his own time, alone with his thoughts, and the shadow of Riddle for sole company. It felt realer somehow, to imagine that. It strangely comforted Harry to see the English countryside empty of people and having his arch-nemesis in the back of his mind.

He was lucky he had landed in Little Hangleton, where everything was small and people were scarce. Seeing Riddle was a surprising but perfectly acceptable experience, but dealing with the hotel lady and the other patrons had been, simply put, _awful_. He had lived for more than a hundred years alone, completely alone. He always thought that he would have given everything for things to be as they were before, but the truth is, he had troubles adjusting to having people around. Everywhere he looked in the village, he thought he saw the faces of the people he lost during both wars, taunting him, reminding him of his curse and how he shouldn't be here, how he couldn't save them when they were still alive.

It was overwhelming.

Where would he go if Riddle didn't want him around ? He was the only person Harry had no problem seeing, the only one who didn't remind him how terrible the world had become sometimes in the future. He felt pathetic to be this dependent on a man who couldn't care less about him, having known Harry for less than a day under less than pleasurable circumstances. He was like a sad, old puppy. The thought disgusted him.

He kept on walking, trying to put these issues at bay for now.


End file.
